


It's Gotta Be Hard

by jooliewrites



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf Oliver, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooliewrites/pseuds/jooliewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, he’s deaf, huh?” Asher says to Connor, shouting a little to be heard over the din of the bar. He scratches at the label on his beer bottle, watching as Oliver and Michaela navigate the crowd on their way over to the bar to get them all another round. “That must really - I mean - it’s hard, right? It’s gotta be hard. Like hard hard.”</p>
<p>+</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Gotta Be Hard

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Posted on Tumblr

“So, he’s deaf, huh?” Asher says to Connor, shouting a little to be heard over the din of the bar. He scratches at the label on his beer bottle, watching as Oliver and Michaela navigate the crowd on their way over to the bar to get them all another round. “That must really - I mean - it’s hard, right? It’s gotta be hard. Like _hard_ hard.”

When Connor merely quirks a brow and lifts his glass for a slow sip, Asher rushes on to explain.

“Like, don’t get me wrong, he’s amazing. Really. Just an amazing guy. Much too good for you.” Asher coughs and shifts in is chair; trying to at least find a comfortable way to sit while he digs himself out of the hole. “But like, talking and conversations and all that relationship shit. All that’s gotta be hard, right?”

Connor considers as he takes another sip of his drink. His eyes flick to Oliver and Michaela, now at the bar with both their heads bent over a drink menu. Even from across the way, he can see Oliver pull a face at some option then nudge Michaela lightly on the arm. Her attention is drawn to whatever drink Oliver is pointing at on the menu and she pulls a similar face before looking up. A beat passes between the pair of them – Connor imagines Oliver’s eyes are twinkling with mischief like they tend to – before they’re grinning wildly, nodding emphatically, and turning to flag down a bartender. Even from across the bar, Connor gets caught up in their shared amusement and grins.

Connor knows what Asher’s really asking and it’s not how Connor and Oliver communicate. Asher doesn’t want to hear about Connor and Oliver’s misadventures in writing everything down during the first few weeks or the thousands of texts they sent each other from across tables in restaurants or sitting next to each other on couches. He’s not looking for an explanation of their weird, bastardized mix of Connor’s broken sign language and Oliver’s superhuman lip reading skills that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else but helps them get through the day.

No, Asher doesn’t want to hear any of that. What Asher really wants to know is how does it work. How does it _really_ work.

Beyond the simple and standard. Beyond starting to learn sign or installing alternative fire detectors. Beyond wearing shoes in the house so your steps reverberate better through the carpet or watching Netflix with the subtitles on. How do you tell him you love him when he can’t hear the words? How do you fight and rage, commiserate and sorrow, joke and enjoy? How, when we are all so accustomed to a world of noise, do you learn to navigate in a land of silence?

Simply, Connor would say if Asher gave voice to the question he was really asking. It’s challenging, sometimes frustrating, occasionally amusing but overall being with Oliver is simple. It’s natural and freeing.

Connor would explain that it’s not so much learning a whole new language as it is finding their language.

It’s him gently reaching over in the middle of an argument to correct your hand shape when you make a mistake but he just continues on with the argument as if nothing happened. It’s learning the thousands of ways you each communicate every emotion on the spectrum without saying or signing a word. You learning to translate joy and despair, melancholy and pleasure in the line of a shoulder or arch of a brow and he interprets a bad day at court verses a good one from the way you hang your coat and drop your keys in the bowl. Lucky couples may have simple exchanges through meaningful looks and emphatic gestures but the pair of you can have epic discussions and fierce debates and deep meetings of the minds in shared glances and quirks of lips without a single sign exchanged.

If he were feeling generous, Connor might also explain to his curious friend that there is an added vulnerability in the sharing of secrets and meeting of souls when it’s not an issue of finding the right words but choosing the right sign, using the perfect touch, and conveying the proper look in your eyes.

Without the luxury of words you instead mouth “I love you” over the expanse of his chest, around the line of his hip, and the down the run of his leg. You hope that scoring the words into every inch of his skin helps him understand how deeply you feel. How you’ve never felt anything like it before. How before when you said those words to others they were empty and false. How before him you were empty and false. Without the luxury of words, you dedicate your entire being to showing him how absolutely completely he is beloved. There are no simple gestures, no meaningless looks. Every touch is a caress and every glance is a promise.

Then, Connor would continue on, there are the unexpected joys.

It’s the freedom of being so unbelievably attuned to each other that he can sense your anger in the tension of your shoulders almost before you can. And all it takes is the tilt of his head toward yours or the brush of his hand on your arm to lift and change your entire mood.

It’s the bubbling happiness when you take him home to meet your parents and sister and find yourselves in the basement of your childhood home. With his back pressed up against your dad’s ancient speakers - turned up so loud they are starting to buzz - you play him every CD you listened to in high school and he grins at you over CD booklets and liner notes. Then you pull him up to circle and sway across the dingy rug. The dance is a little awkward and off tempo but you still grin like an idiot and wish you could send this little glimpse of the future back to the boy who used to sneak down here to hide from his sister. Send back just this little bit of a future where he is loved beyond anything ever dreamt possible.

It’s the unexpected tears that come when he takes your hands in his, looks you right in the eye, and says, “I love you.” To someone else the words may sound broken, under enunciated and a little coarse, but to you they are music. They are the soundtrack of the rest of your life. He smiles wide, his eyes gleaming as your own fill with tears, and he says it again. Over and over and over his lips stumble a little over the words but you just hear the melody. You pull him in, wrapping an arm around his waist and anchoring a hand in his hair, and he continues, pressing the words into your neck. You feel his love as you hear it. Tears slip from your eyes to run down the back of his neck and you lose track of time as you stand there in love, wholly and completely in love.

“Connor?”

Asher’s question pulls Connor out of his reverie and he meets Asher’s gaze with a questioning expression. “I asked if it was hard. Being with Oliver. So…is it hard?”

“No.” Connor’s answer is definitive as he watches Oliver and Michaela heading back to their table’ their arms laden with drinks for them all. “It’s easy. It’s the easiest thing in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)


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